 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
385
THE WIDOW'S CHRISTMAS.
This is the day of Christmas; but how can we merry be—
Harry who lies on the bed there, and the baby on my knee?
How can we three be merry, whatever our hearts desire,
While Harry, my boy, is dying, and we have no food nor fire?
Harry who lies on the bed there, and the baby on my knee?
How can we three be merry, whatever our hearts desire,
While Harry, my boy, is dying, and we have no food nor fire?
This is the day of Christmas, the blessedest day of the year,
And when it last fell my husband he was alive and here;
And Harry was stout and hearty, and the baby was yet unborn—
One is dead, another is dying, and life is a state forlorn.
And when it last fell my husband he was alive and here;
And Harry was stout and hearty, and the baby was yet unborn—
One is dead, another is dying, and life is a state forlorn.
This is the day of Christmas; this morning at break of day
I heard the chimes in the steeples, with the bells in silvery play.
Cheery they were to some folk; to me their sound was a knell,
And I heard the moaning of anguish in the voice of each chiming bell.
I heard the chimes in the steeples, with the bells in silvery play.
Cheery they were to some folk; to me their sound was a knell,
And I heard the moaning of anguish in the voice of each chiming bell.
This is the day of Christmas; but a year ago, my boy,
You awoke when the dawn was breaking, and gave such a shout of joy,
And you blessed the good St. Nicholas who brought a drum and gun,
And a fairy-book with pictures for your father's only son.
You awoke when the dawn was breaking, and gave such a shout of joy,
And you blessed the good St. Nicholas who brought a drum and gun,
And a fairy-book with pictures for your father's only son.
This is the day of Christmas; to think in less than a year
Your father should be in the graveyard, and you a poor cripple here;
No food the body to cherish, nor fire the body to warm,
And rags, and those but scanty, to cover each shivering form.
Your father should be in the graveyard, and you a poor cripple here;
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And rags, and those but scanty, to cover each shivering form.
This is the day of Christmas, when our Lord a babe was born
And laid to rest in a manger with brutes of the hoof and horn;
And the angels at His birth hour sang sweetly, telling then
Of peace on the earth around us to all good-willing men.
And laid to rest in a manger with brutes of the hoof and horn;
And the angels at His birth hour sang sweetly, telling then
Of peace on the earth around us to all good-willing men.
This is the day of Christmas; and what must I have done
That peace is no longer my portion, nor strength for my little son?
Is it wonderful that I murmur while here, with my want and woe,
I can hear the joyous voices arise from the street below?
That peace is no longer my portion, nor strength for my little son?
Is it wonderful that I murmur while here, with my want and woe,
I can hear the joyous voices arise from the street below?
This is the day of Christmas; when yesterday at four
I went for my scanty wages, I found me a barred-up door;
They had gone to prepare for feasting, and so the better they may,
We three must suffer with hunger, and shiver with cold to-day.
I went for my scanty wages, I found me a barred-up door;
They had gone to prepare for feasting, and so the better they may,
We three must suffer with hunger, and shiver with cold to-day.
This is the day of Christmas; but keep a good heart, my son;
To-morrow the shop will open; your trouble will soon be done.
They'll pay the wages they owe me, and we'll have some meat and bread,
And coal and—speak to me, darling! God help me!—my boy is dead!
To-morrow the shop will open; your trouble will soon be done.
They'll pay the wages they owe me, and we'll have some meat and bread,
And coal and—speak to me, darling! God help me!—my boy is dead!
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |